


Jesses, and Other Means of Control

by Victopteryx



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Disturbing Themes, Falconry, Family Politics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23940160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victopteryx/pseuds/Victopteryx
Summary: Madara was "retired." Most days, he looked after the birds, he looked after Izuna, and he just tried to keep it together. Things were as good as they had ever been.And then Hashirama Senju came back.
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 72
Kudos: 192





	1. Chapter 1

_\- Izuna 15:30_

_hey can you do me a favor_

Madara squinted down at his cracked phone screen. Shouldn’t Izuna be in class by now? He put down the cleaver and thumbed back a response.

_-15:33_

_If you’re skipping class again I’m going do something drastic._

_\- Izuna 15:33_

_why do u always assume the worst madara_

_no im not skipping class_

_it’s the finals im not going 2 skip finals_

This wasn’t as reassuring as Izuna had probably intended it to be.

- _15:34_

_What do yuo need_

_*you_

The response was immediate.

_-Izuna 15:34_

_i need a flower_

Madara rolled his eyes. This could wait until he finished feeding Garuda. He picked the cleaver back up and eyed the squirrel on the cutting board.

The Uchiha Wild Bird Conservatory was one of the oldest in the state. An uneasy partnership with the local University allowed it to continue even after the incident, through the beneficence of Senju Butsuma.

_Senju Butsuma._

The cleaver slammed into the squirrel neck with a meaty _thwack._

Madara compartmentalized. He was good at that. He was “retired.” He looked after the birds in the Conservatory, made sure none of the volunteers lost fingers to Garuda, and if something sharp and painful from his past reared an ugly head he put it in a box and buried it.

The squirrel haunch weighed 3.5 oz. He bagged the rest of it, threw it in the minifridge, and shouldered his way out of the small prep area.

Garuda was eyeing Madara restlessly through the wire mesh of the mew. Madara eyed him back with equal suspicion.

“Are you going to make this easy for me?” he asked. Garuda clacked his beak menacingly.

As it turned out, he was. Madara was able to change his water, collect any old castings, and set the squirrel haunch on the weathered stump near the wall before the bird began hissing.

Madara shut the door to the mew and latched it shut, surveying his work with a hint of pride.

Garuda was an old massive ferrugineous hawk. Dark, rust-red feathers spread over its folded wings, spilling onto a cream-colored breast. An old injury at the base of his right wing meant he could never be released to the wild, but Madara made sure he lived out his silver years in comfort, terrorizing the students of the University of Konoha in the bimonthly education seminars. Madara was unabashedly proud of his progress with the bird – no fingers had been lost to his chipped beak in at least three months. He had a daily counter going above his office desk.

Oh, right. Izuna’s flower. Why did Izuna need a flower.

- _Izuna 15:34_

_just dont ask me why i need it lol_

_i cant tell its a secret_

_-Izuna 15:50_

_also my finals about to start_

_-Izuna 15:58_

_ok fine_

_its for a date_

Madara stared down at his phone blandly. A date? Good for him. It’d be good for his younger brother to actually go meet someone not related to him for once. The clock on his phone said _16:04_. Izuna must be testing by now.

Madara was about to pocket the phone when it buzzed again.

- _Izuna 16:04_

_also can u get the flower from this specific shop pls? he likes this weird specific breed_

He sent Madara an address.

_-16:05_

_I don’t think flowers have breeds._

_Don’t text during a test._

_-Izuna 16:05_

_yes MOTHER_

A picture followed the text. It was of a small potted plant, with a thick, twisted stem and a dark red flower bud.

“Weird.” Madara muttered. His little brother was giving somebody _this_ as a gift? He guessed it looked kind of phallic…?

The flower shop actually wasn’t far from the Conservatory at all. Madara began walking along the outskirts of the Konoha campus. Spring had just begun to melt into summer, and the cherry blossom trees were shedding petals like rain.

They were getting stuck in his hair. Madara narrowed his eyes. He should’ve taken his car.

The walk was mercifully brief. Madara came to a stop in front of a bright green storefront. The stone sign above the door proudly proclaimed,

ONE THOUSAND YEAR PROSPERITY FLOWRES

Madara stared. Flowres. He looked down at his phone – sure enough, the destination on the map had the same mistake. Why did Izuna specify this place?

The plants outside looked healthy enough.

Madara pushed the door open with his elbow. There was no bell, only the sound of hinges creaking slightly.

The interior of the flower shop was cramped, to say the least. Floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed full of pots, jars, bowls, and all kinds of containers spilled over with massive, verdant flowers and vines. Stiff leaves shuddered in the wind as Madara shut the door behind him.

“Hello?” Madara said. There was no answer. He tried again. “HELLO?”

There was a crash from upstairs, then the sound of harried footsteps.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear y – Welcome to – ” began a voice from behind the door. Madara mentally prepared himself for a grueling exchange of pleasantries.

Then the door opened and Madara came face to face with Senju Hashirama. Senju _motherfucking_ Hashirama in a floral apron, clutching a tiny pair of scissors.

“ – the… one thousand…” Hashirama’s words died in his throat as he stared at Madara.

Madara opened his mouth and nothing came out. Hashirama was _here?_ In Konoha? _How_? Was he following him? Was this Butsuma’s doing – it had to be Butsuma’s doing, his benevolence must have finally run out –

“Madara,” Hashirama breathed, and his face lit up like the sun.

Madara turned around and walked out of the store.

* * *

His mind started working again about two blocks away from the shop. The minute Madara realized he was still walking, he came to an abrupt halt and planted himself on the curbside. His mind was racing.

How was Hashirama here? _How could he be here_? What was going to happen to Madara – what was going to happen to _Izuna?_ They couldn’t afford for Madara to go back to jail – and he was going to end up in jail, wasn’t he? Tajima was right, just like how he had been right about Izuna –

Madara clamped down on that train of thought before it could go any further. He dimly realized he was probably panicking, which was so unlike him that the shock of it actually shook him out of it. He ground his palms into his eyes and thought.

That flower shop clearly belonged to Hashirama. Or, at least, Hashirama worked there. He’d clearly been surprised to see Madara. That meant he wasn’t there to track him down. It could… just… be a coincidence? Madara sounded the word out in his head. It was just a coincidence.

Coincidences didn’t happen to the Uchiha clan. Coincidences didn’t happen to _Madara._ Did Izuna know Hashirama worked there? No, he couldn’t have. He would’ve told him if he knew Senju Hashirama was back in Konoha.

Oh, right. He still needed to get Izuna his flower.

Madara spent the slow walk back to the flower shop in a state of controlled frenzy. What should he say? What could he say? The last time he’d seen Hashirama they’d both been bloody with – should he just act like he didn’t know him? No, stupid, Hashirama already said his name, he clearly recognized him –

Madara still hadn’t figured out what he was going to say when he opened the door. Hashirama was still in the main shop itself, watering a leafy plant with trailing vines behind the counter. His back was to the door, but he couldn’t have missed the squeal of the hinges.

“Hashirama,” Madara said.

Hashirama froze. Then he very gently set down the watering can and turned to face him.

“Madara,” he said measuredly.

 _Ok,_ Madara thought. _This can work. Just pretend nothing happened._ “I need one of these,” he said brusquely, thrusting his phone at Hashirama’s face. _He’s taller than I remember._

Hashirama leaned in and peered at the picture. Several emotions flitted very quickly over his face. “I, um... you want _that_ plant?" he asked.

Madara levelled a flat stare at him. “Yes.”

“We don’t sell that plant,” Hashirama said blankly. “Sorry.”

Madara processed this. Or, more accurately, tried to process it.

“Oh,” he said. “Why not?”

This clearly was not the reaction Hashirama had been expecting. “Because _no_ _one_ sells that plant. Where did you get that picture? Also, why do you need it?”

“It’s… for…” Madara was struggling. Hashirama was _staring_ at him. “Nothing. Forget about it.” He turned on his heel and was almost at the door again when Hashirama caught his arm.

“Madara wait – ” Hashirama stopped abortively. Madara was frozen in the entrance. “I – you have flowers in your hair. Flower petals, I mean.” Madara said nothing. Hashirama let his hand drop and he was gone.

* * *

_\- Izuna 18:06_

_hey bro just got out of my test_

_do u have that flower?_

_-Izuna 18:30_

_bro_

_madara_

_\- Izuna 18:50_

_alright i guess not?_

_text me when u get this, im worried abt u_

_wish me luck_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! This is my first time trying a project like this (or in this genre) so please give me feedback on what you think! Do you like it so far? Are you confused yet, lol? More will come soon, so keep posted!


	2. Chapter 2

Hashirama sat motionlessly in the leather chair, back ramrod straight, eyes staring unblinkingly ahead. Beside him sat Tobirama, equally still, hands clutched around a small terracotta pot. Neither said anything. The _click click click_ of the secretary’s nails on her keyboard was the only sound in the wide foyer.

There wasn’t a lot to say about Senju Enterprises that couldn’t be gleaned from the entryway to their corporate office. It was an old and esteemed company, run by an old and esteemed family. The Senju clan had one thousand skills, and the Senju Enterprises corporation had one thousand subsidiaries. The corporate building reflected this – an old construct, reinforced with stainless steel and glass. The foyer was large, and empty, and imposing. Lining the right wall was a row of stiff leather chairs – this was where Hashirama and Tobirama sat in silence. Opposite that, a single secretary’s desk. The far wall across from the entrance was a row of elevators and a small hallway with a janitor’s closet and a restroom. In the dead center of the room, emblazoned into the floor, was the Senju clan crest.

It was not an inviting entrance. It was an entrance that expected you to know who you were going to see, where you needed to go, and exactly when you needed to be there.

An elevator dinged. Out strode a throng of businessmen in expensive pressed suits, murmuring among themselves. A few directed thin smiles towards Hashirama and his brother, which Hashirama returned politely. They seemed in decent humor. He was going to take that as a good sign.

The secretary waited until the men had left the foyer, then said, “He’s ready for you now.” Hashirama flashed her a smile that was marginally more genuine than the one he’d given the businessmen, and nodded at Tobirama.

The wood paneled elevator doors slid shut silently between them. Tobirama pressed a smooth button labelled _16._

“Do you think he’ll be pleased?” Hashirama said softly as the glowing number above the door climbed.

“Maybe,” Tobirama replied. “It’s taking slower than he hoped, but progress is progress.”

Hashirama didn’t respond, but sucked in a deep breath through his nose as the counter hit _16_.

Floor 16 was lit with warm sconces set into oak paneled walls. The carpeted hallway was completely bare of furniture. A security camera tracked their way down the hall as the two made their way to the single door, which Hashirama rapped briefly with his knuckles before pushing inside.

Senju Butsuma was the consummate businessman – the sort who had read The Art Of War once in an internship and emblazoned it on his heart. He considered himself a family man. It was convenient for him that securing his family’s future and aggressively expanding the Senju Enterprises portfolio went hand in hand. In Senju Butsuma’s world, there were allies and there were enemies, and the universe was split cleanly between the two.

He was leaning back in his imposing chair behind his imposing desk, back to the giant, imposing window that overlooked Konoha’s financial district.

“Report, Tobirama,” Butsuma said without preamble. He was a busy man.

“Growth up 10% from last week,” Tobirama said, setting the terracotta pot down on the polished desk surface. “Bud scale developing rapidly. Internal temperatures increasing at projected rate, soil acidity – ”

“Fine,” Butsuma said, waving his hand. Tobirama’s mouth shut with a click. Their father leaned forward and stared at the plant on his desk.

It wasn’t very pretty, as far as flower buds went, Hashirama thought. The plant came straight out of the soil with a stalk almost an inch and a half in diameter, which twisted around itself like a rope, ending in a perfect circle of short, spiky leaves, topped with a scaly, dark red flower bud.

Butsuma’s eyes fixed on Hashirama. “Anything to report, Hashirama?”

Hashirama felt his face warm. Did Butsuma expect him to prepare a report as well? He’d done his part, he – Hashirama’s eyes flicked over to Tobirama, askance, but his younger brother’s gaze was fixed on the plant before them, jaw tense.

“I – ” Hashirama licked his lips and began, “I planted some geranium seeds the day before yesterday that are already sending up shoots?”

This was clearly not the answer Butsuma had been hoping for. He leaned back in his chair and said nothing, fingers lacing over his stomach.

Hashirama felt a sinking feeling in his gut. “Geraniums are – they usually take a week or more to germinate naturally, so it might – ”

Butsuma was shaking his head. “Nevermind,” he said flatly. “Hashirama, go wait in the lobby.”

Tobirama didn’t move. Hashirama stood, trying to hide the tremor in his hands, and walked at a measured pace back to the hallway. He stopped just outside the closed office door, directly underneath – and out of sight – of the camera and took two deep breaths.

Senju Hashirama had always had a way with plants ever since he was young. Unfortunately, plants do not make trade deals or do corporate mergers.

Hashirama didn’t wait in the lobby. Tobirama had the same credit cards he did – he could call a cab. Hashirama rode the elevator straight down into the parking lot and got into his car. He sat for a long, still moment, hands holding limply onto the steering wheel. Then he turned the key in the ignition and headed home.

* * *

The ONE THOUSAND YEAR PROSPERITY FLOWRES store was an indulgence. It kept Hashirama busy, and kept him out of the way – which was fine. Hashirama would take what he could get, even if it was a constant reminder of how disappointing he was to his father.

He locked the door behind him with a sigh and turned to face the dim interior of the shop. He didn’t bother to turn on any lights, and made for the stairs, hands trailing the tips of the leaves as he went. He missed the way the plants turned their faces towards him in the dark.

Hashirama’s apartment above the flower shop was smaller than you’d think, given he was the son of a multinational conglomerate powerhouse. Barely scraping 1,000 square feet, Hashirama had filled almost every available surface with potted plants. It was less like an apartment and more like a messy extension of the store.

Hashirama shrugged out of his suit jacket and threw it on the couch. His body shortly followed, sinking into the paisley cushions with a ragged sigh. It was only three thirty, but he felt like he’d been awake for days. He stared numbly at the geraniums on the windowsill.

Butsuma held his eldest son to a certain bar of expectations, and Hashirama kept crashing lower and lower every year. He wasn’t cut out for business, he didn’t have the fire for politics, he was too soft to be carved into something useful. Something to be proud of. The one and only thing Hashirama had ever done to surprise (or please) his father had ruined people’s lives, and left him bloody and traumatized.

Despite everything, Hashirama was not prone to melancholy. Meetings with Senju Butsuma were a dark spot in his day, to be sure, but there was still daylight outside. In here, he didn’t have to be Senju Hashirama – he could just be Hashirama. Plants could just be plants. He allowed himself one full minute of moping, then got to his feet. He knew exactly what he was going to do for the rest of the day, and it involved his floral apron, tiny scissors, and a tiny Black Pine sapling. In a few hours, he would text Tobirama and find out what their father had commanded next – but for now, Hashirama tied the apron strings around his waist and sat down in front of his workstation.

The clock on the wall read 3:53PM.

* * *

Madara had been in his shop. Hashirama stared at the door. Madara was in Konoha? He hadn’t – Hashirama was sure he’d been told –

Hashirama was feeling several very strong, conflicting emotions as he stood staring at his shop door. One was joy, pure and simple. _Uchiha Madara had been in his shop_. The last time he’d seen him, Madara’s hair had been shoulder-length, but now it went down his entire back. And it had flower petals in it? Madara had strolled in his shop like it was the most casual thing in the world, like he hadn’t vanished off the face of the Earth three years ago.

And he was asking for the plant. Madara somehow had a picture of that plant on his phone and didn’t seem to think anything of it. Tobirama’s plant, the plant Hashirama had – Madara clearly didn’t recognize it, or he would’ve said something. _He wouldn’t have even come to the store,_ Hashirama thought wildly. He came into the store and asked to _buy_ it. He scrubbed at his face. He needed to go upstairs – he needed to fix the pot he’d knocked over and he needed to call Tobirama. _Urgently._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

“And you’re _sure_ it was Hashirama?” Izuna stressed, squinting at Madara.

Madara didn’t dignify that as an answer. He stonily watched the barista swirl the milk in the pitcher before pouring it into the espresso. ‘Sure’ it was Hashirama, his ass. Madara could pick out Hashirama in a full football stadium. He could recognize Hashirama blindfolded.

“Madonna?” said the barista in a small voice. Madara and Izuna were the only ones in the coffee shop. “… Cappuccino for Madonna?”

She was staring right at him. Izuna elbowed him in the ribs.

“Thanks,” Madara muttered as he accepted the cup. Izuna slurped cheerfully on his iced latte. They didn’t mess up _Izuna’s_ name.

“So Senju Hashirama’s still in Konoha,” Izuna mused, chewing on his straw. “Did he say anything?”

“He seemed to think it was weird that I asked for that dick plant,” Madara said, somewhat accusingly. Izuna didn’t have the grace to look at all guilty.

“In the end, it’s no surprise they didn’t have it,” he said. “Sorry, Madara. That whole thing was a miscommunication. See, the guy I saw last night sent me a picture of this plant the other day, right after we’d finished talking about this one flower shop – you can see why I put two and two together.”

“You took two completely different topics and jumped to conclusions, like you always do.” Madara sipped his cappuccino. “Who is this guy, anyway? Why won’t you tell me his name?” Madara paused, and stared at Izuna over the brim of his mug. “You _do_ know his name, don’t you?”

Izuna rolled his eyes. “I know his name, dick. I just don’t want to get too far ahead of myself. We’ve only been on, like, two dates.” Izuna propped his head up in his hand. “He’s a Bio major like me, though. And he’s got the coolest fucking hair, bro… and he’s so smart, and – ”

“Alright, great.” Madara pulled out his phone and began to scroll through his emails. “Glad my failure to get you your dick plant didn’t hurt your chances.”

“I made a swift recovery after you ghosted me, yeah. I got him normal flowers, haha.” Izuna watched him silently for a minute. “Hey, are you going to come visit home anytime soon? Sasuke misses you.”

Madara snorted. “Sasuke doesn’t know who I _am_. He’s a baby.”

“He’s four years old.”

“Like I said, a baby.”

Izuna sighed and stretched. “I get worried about you, that’s all. It’s not right for you to live like this. Hikaku would let you back into the compound if you asked, you know.”

“Being allowed to live on the compound is not the same thing as – ” Madara cut himself off. “It’s done, Izuna. It’s old history. Hikaku’s clan head, everyone’s moved on. I’m fine where I am.”

“You need friends, Madara.”

“The last time I tried to make friends it almost killed me.”

Izuna looked like he wanted to pound his face into the table. “Madara, I’m going to a party tomorrow night,” he declared suddenly. “You’re coming.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t pretend like you have other things you need to do. You do all the paperwork at the Conservatory like a week in advance, don’t lie to me. I’m going to pick you up at seven tomorrow and you’re going to get wasted with your brother in some sleazy frat party.”

“Izuna, this sounds like hell.”

“ _’Izuna, this sounds like hell, wahh wahh,’_ ”Izuna mocked. He cocked his head, and in an almost gentler tone, said, “Madara, you and I both know you’ll be depressed for the next month because you saw Hashirama.”

“ _Wow_ , thank you Izuna!”

“You go cry in the shower every time you hear his _name_. Just come party with me? Please? Then I’ll leave you alone to wallow.” He slurped the last of his latte through the straw and stood, patting Madara on the shoulder as he left.

Madara stared at his now-cold cappuccino morosely. He hated to admit it, but Izuna was right. Madara couldn’t stop replaying the scene in his head – the way Hashirama’s face had lit up like the sun when he’d seen him. Hashirama was somehow taller than before, too. And he has a flower shop. Madara shook his head in disbelief, his hair moving like a living thing as he did so.

Then he drained his cup and headed for the door.

“Bye!” he heard the barista call behind him.

* * *

Madara kept himself busy. That evening, he double and triple-checked the food situation at the Conservatory. He made a note to buy more beef hearts – maybe a hare? He cleaned Takamaru’s mew. He practiced step-ups with Garuda and was only bitten once for his efforts. He mowed the weathering yard. When the sky began to turn purple and he couldn’t see the path without his flashlight, he finally called it a day.

Madara lived a distance away from the University, in a tiny apartment building near a manufacturing plant. His apartment was small, cheap, and far away from the Uchiha Ancestral Compound. His landlord barely spoke English, but that suited Madara just fine, who barely spoke anyway.

He walked up the stairs at a snail’s pace. His keys jangled as he unlocked his front door. A battered brass _3_ glinted in the weak hallway light as it swung inwards.

Madara’s studio apartment was bare, or close to it. He had a futon, a duffle bag of clothes, two towels and a saucepan. It was ascetic to the point of comedy.

Madara dropped his keys on the kitchen counter and face-planted onto the futon. He didn’t bother taking off his shoes. There was a brief moment of respite. Then, like the tide coming in, Hashirama’s face swam to the forefront of his mind. This one wasn’t the sunny smile he’d sent him the other day. The face in Madara’s mind was the face he’d seen three years ago, bloodied and raw, eyes wide and fixed on him.

What happened three years ago? Where did he go? Had Hashirama been here this whole time, just waiting? Avoiding him, Madara knew with iron-clad certainty. If he’d been in Hashirama’s place he would have avoided him too.

Madara closed his eyes but the image remained. Hashirama, screaming his name, hoarse with fear – he had been so angry, Madara remembered. Furious. He remembered the white hot rage that made his limbs shake, tightened his grip on the body, as he swung again, and again, and again…

_Feeding schedule: Takamaru, Thursdays. Two ounces of rat. Enrichment on Tuesday. Garuda, Fridays. Three and a half ounces of squirrel…_

Madara was good at compartmentalizing. He needed to remember the beef hearts.

* * *

Morning dawned, despite Madara’s best efforts. He hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. After the third time he was woken up by nightmare, he gave up on the idea altogether and stared at his phone until the sun rose. Madara violently hated the sunbeams creeping across his carpet, almost as much as he hated himself for being awake to watch them. He should get up. He should take a shower. He should probably eat something too, he thought as his stomach growled. He dimly remembered getting food just… the day before yesterday.

Madara swung his legs off the futon. His phone buzzed

_\- Izuna 07:30_

_don’t forget party 2night_

_u r not not coming_

Madara stared blankly at it. _Well_ , he thought grimly. _That’s as good a reason as any to take a shower._

* * *

_\- Izuna 08:14_

_madara_

_-Izuna 08:20_

_bro_

_respond w/ positive affirm8ion of party-going intent_

_u r coming: y/y_

_\- 08:30_

_I’m coming. It’s not till 1900 right_

_-Izuna 08:31_

_what does 1900 mean stop using ur fake time_

_its at 7_

_\- 09:34_

_Send me the address._

_-Izuna 09:35_

_ill pck u up_

_its nbd_

_\- 11:15_

_Send me the address, Izuna_

* * *

“Here you go, buddy.”

Madara blinked at the $5 bill being held in front of his face. Slowly, his eyes followed the arm up to its owner, a jovial looking man with outrageously yellow hair.

“Excuse me?” Madara said. The man blinked at him. Just then, a redheaded woman barreled down the bus stop towards them.

“SosorrytobotheryousirpleasehaveagreatdaycomeONMINATO – ” fell from her lips in one breath as she dragged the man away.

Madara stared after them, nonplussed. Did he really look that bad? He pulled out his phone and turned on the front-facing camera. He immediately shut it off. He did look that bad. And he even took a shower this morning and everything… not that the shower helped the massive bags under his eyes, or the hollow gauntness of his cheeks. Showers never helped his hair, either. Why did he bother taking a shower again?

The bus squealed to a halt in front of him. Madara caught a glimpse of the clock near the driver as he fished for change. It said _5:46_ in angry red LED’s.

Madara sat near the back and thought about the weight of Hashirama’s hand on his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone tell madara the showers supposed to help w the smell  
> UPDATE - i drew art https://ancharan.tumblr.com/post/616981635154444288/dont-say-i-didnt-warn-u


	4. Chapter 4

“So Madara’s still in Konoha?” Tobirama mused over the tinny speaker. Hashirama rested the phone on his workbench as he swept up the shattered pottery.

“Madara’s in Konoha,” he confirmed, dumping the shards into a waste bin. “He looked like hell, too.”

“Not surprising.”

“I wish I had his number,” Hashirama said dully, sitting back on the floor, dustpan dangling limply from his fingers. “There’s so much I want to talk to him about…”

“He might not want to talk to you,” Tobirama said. “Did you consider that? He might’ve _told_ Butsuma to tell you he was moving away.”

Hashirama considered this, and frowned. “No,” he said, quietly at first, then again strongly. “No, I don’t think so. He seemed just as shocked to see me. You didn’t see his face, Tobirama.”

“Maybe not. I’d be cautious, nonetheless.” Tobirama paused. “You remember why.”

Hashirama narrowed his eyes. He got off the floor, dusting off his pants as he did so. “I didn’t forget,” he said. “I didn’t forget any of it. If anything, I’m not sure _Madara_ remembers everything. Why did he think he could buy that flower? How could he even have a picture of it?”

There was a pause on Tobirama’s end. “I might…” his brother began. “I might be partially responsible for that part.”

Hashirama stopped dead, staring at the phone, dumbfounded. He snatched it up off the table and turned off the speakerphone, holding it close to his ear. “Tobirama…” he began.

“I did not text Uchiha Madara a picture of 145-B, Hashirama,” Tobirama cut him off. “I didn’t know Madara was here any more than you did.” He paused again. “But there _is_ a man in class that I sent it to.”

Hashirama, still holding the phone, turned and walked towards his kitchenette.

Tobirama continued. “His name is Izuna. I don’t know his clan, or if he’s even a clan member. But it wouldn’t be unreasonable... no, it wouldn’t even be surprising if he had some connection to the Uchiha clan in some way.”

Hashirama slowly filled a kettle with water from the sink and set it on the stove. Then, very calmly, he said, “You think you might have sent a picture of _that flower_ to a member of the Uchiha clan.”

Tobirama was silent.

Hashirama sighed. He cranked the knob on the small gas burner and rubbed his temples. “Well,” he said. “I’m not telling father.”

“Good,” Tobirama said. “He’d probably blame you anyway.”

Hashirama rolled his eyes, but let it pass. His brother was right. “So can I ask _why_ you sent clan secrets to a classmate?”

“This barely counts as a ‘clan secret.’ If it were a ‘clan secret’ there would be paperwork, and more people than us and father would know about it.”

“You’re dodging the question, little brother.” Hashirama pulled the kettle off the stove. “This _Maybe_ -Uchiha Izuna… well, what’s he look like?” He was answered with an angry sputter. Oh, Tobirama. It was too easy to get under his brother’s skin sometimes. “Will he be at your little party tomorrow?”

“Quite possibly,” Tobirama said frostily. “Which you are still _not_ invited to. It is _weird_ for a grown man to be at a college party, Hashirama.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Hashirama agreed cheerfully. “But how else am I going to protect my cute little brother’s innocence?” He dropped a teabag into a mug and began to pour in the hot water. “You know these Uchiha’s, Tobi. Can’t trust ‘em. You said it yourself.”

“Do not call me Tobi.”

“So do you think this Izuna knows Madara?” Hashirama carried the mug back to his worktable.

“Maybe,” Tobirama said. “It’s the only way I assume he’d end up with that picture outside of some _impressive_ espionage.”

The thought of Madara doing espionage of any kind made Hashirama snort. From what he remembered, the man had all the subtlety of a bulldozer, and the strength to match.

“You should ask him for Madara’s number!” Hashirama said.

“I will absolutely not be doing that.”

“Oh…” Hashirama said. “Of course… I’m so sorry to impose… I wouldn’t wouldn’t want to strain your burgeoning romance with this mystery Uchiha… your older brother will deal with his problems on his own…”

“Hashirama…” There was an exasperated sigh. “Madara isn’t the Uchiha clan head. We don’t know what Izuna’s relationship to him is, if any. Besides, I could be completely off the mark – he might be a Hyuuga – ”

There was a pause.

“Tobirama, I love you, but if you start dating a Hyuuga I’m going to have to put my foot down.”

* * *

It was eight o’clock.

The party was in full swing. Tobirama’s house – a rental, close to the biology building on campus, but far enough away for privacy – was crammed to bursting. Who would’ve thought Hashirama’s cute little brother was so popular? There was deep bassy music coming from somewhere, there were bottles and cups scattered on every surface, and the partygoers were, as the kids say, “just vibing.” Hashirama assumed that’s what they were doing, anyway – he wasn’t sure if the raucous laughter coming from the backyard or the violent crash he just heard upstairs fell under the “vibing” umbrella or not. At this point, he’d had enough to drink that he _didn’t really care._

Hashirama was feeling pretty good, he had to admit. So what if he couldn’t help with 145-B? So what if their father was disappointed in him? There was loud music playing, he had a drink – well, he’d _had_ a drink somewhere, it wasn’t with him now – and he was making a _killing_ at this game.

“Three of a kind!” cried the student to his left. He splayed his cards proudly on the table.

“Wow, nice!” Hashirama said. “Unfortunately, I have a full house.” The kid slammed his palm on the table and stood, finger in his face, mouth already opened to dispute the hand, but Hashirama was already gone, stuffing his winnings into his jacket as he went.

God, he loved gambling. The only thing he loved more than gambling was winning, and boy oh boy, Hashirama was feeling like a winner tonight.

He ducked under someone swinging a – was that a _sword?_ – and made his way to the kitchen. Tobirama’s kitchen was normally pristine, with the tasteful gray cupboards full of tastefully matching cups and the sink completely clear of dishes. Tobirama had a lot of projects going on all the time, and keeping his house meticulously organized was his way of coping; apparently, it was easier for him to focus with the reassurance that everything was always in its place and accounted for.

Currently, there was a keg in the sink, broken wine bottles on the floor, and at a plastic milk jug full of a pink liquid being passed around the room. Hashirama snagged it and poured himself a cup, just in time to see someone crash outside the kitchen window.

“Oh, fuck!” someone shouted, and there was a general scuffle towards the patio as the students rushed outside. Hashirama let himself be carried with the crowd.

“Kagami!” someone hollered, pushing through the group. It was a man with long, spiky black hair, tied back in a ponytail. Hashirama felt his heart skip a beat – but this man was too slender, and his hair was too well groomed to be Madara. There was an undeniable resemblance, though, even in the glimpse Hashirama had seen, and he followed him as he shoved towards the base of the wall.

“Kagami, can you hear me? Are you okay?” The man demanded, raising his voice over the music.

The person who had fallen waved him off. “I’m fine, Izuna – ” _Oh,_ Hashirama thought. “ – I’m fine, I can get up on my own – ”

Izuna didn’t seem satisfied, though, and helped pull the man to his feet. “Does anything feel broken? What happened?”

“Stop mothering me, cousin, I said I’m _fine_.” The crowd began to disperse as Kagami got to his feet, shaking off clumps of mud.

Izuna turned around, and Hashirama immediately noticed two things. The first was the Uchiha fan emblazoned proudly in the middle of his shirt, and the second was his _striking_ resemblance to Madara. Izuna caught his eye, briefly, and flashed him a quick smile, saying, “He should be okay, we’ve all had falls worse than this.” He looped his arm around the other man’s torso as he said so, despite his protests.

“You sure you don’t need me to call anyone?” Hashirama offered.

“Nah, I’m good,” Kagami said. “Izuna, let go of me – go talk to your boyfriend, I’m in the middle of something.”

“In the middle of something? You fell out of a window, dipshit,” Izuna said, but released him nonetheless. As Kagami staggered back inside, Izuna stuffed his hands in his pockets and shook his head. He turned and began to saunter to the other side of the patio, where, to Hashirama’s surprise, stood Tobirama. Tobirama, who was _smoking_ , hip resting against a small plastic patio table.

“Sorry about that, Tobi,” Izuna said casually.

Hashirama’s eyes snapped to Tobirama’s as a wide grin broke out across his face. _So it’s like_ that _, is it?_

Tobirama saw Hashirama grinning like a devil and heaved a deep sigh. “Izuna, let me introduce you to my brother, Hashirama.”

Izuna’s eyes gleamed in the light spilling out from the windows. He looked at Hashirama like he was a cat staring through the bars of a birdcage. “A pleasure,” he said.

“Same here!” Hashirama said guilelessly. He was good at that. He hoped this Uchiha wasn’t as skittish as the other one he knew. “Hey, Tobirama, can I talk to you for a second?”

Tobirama stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table and followed Hashirama a short distance away.

“Didn’t know he was an Uchiha, huh?” Hashirama muttered to him.

“In my defense,” Tobirama said. “He’s never worn that shirt to class before.”

Behind them, Uchiha Izuna was rapidly tapping away one-handedly on a phone. There was a slight curve to his mouth.

“Tobirama,” Hashirama said. He wasn’t smiling now, and his voice lowered so Tobirama had to lean closer to hear. “You need to find out what he did with the picture of 145-B. See if Madara was the only one he sent it to, or if there were others. And…” he paused. Tobirama’s red eyes were fixed on his. Hashirama grinned again. “… try to be careful, little brother. Don’t forget protectio – ”

Tobirama shoved him roughly and stomped back over to Izuna, who was still looking far more pleased than he had any right to be.

“Have you seen upstairs yet, Hashirama?” Izuna asked. Tobirama blinked at him.

“Not yet,” Hashirama replied. “Something worth seeing up there?” He took his first sip of the pink drink in his hand. It tasted like battery acid.

“Something like that!” Izuna said. He turned back to Tobirama. “So tell me more about this essay you have to write. The professor said it was prep work for your thesis?”

It was a clear dismissal, but that was fine. Hashirama shot Tobirama another knowing smile and slipped back into the house. He drained his cup – what was _in_ this? Someone had knocked over the trashcan, spilling garbage all over the floor. Hashirama delicately dropped his cup on top of the trash pile and looked around for the stairs. The bass was still thrumming from the other room. Hashirama could feel it reverberating in his chest. He edged his way past a laughing group of college students and delicately sidestepped a girl being shepherded towards the bathroom as he climbed the staircase.

The second floor of the house was calmer, but only marginally. The door to Tobirama’s room was locked (unsurprising) but the unused second bedroom was thronging with people. Hashirama sauntered up behind the crowd and craned his neck to see what the commotion was about.

There was a dart game in progress. A dart game well underway, and with sizeable stakes, according to the giant piece of paper taped to the wall. And standing in the middle of the room, arm raised mid-throw…

… was Uchiha Madara. He looked better than the last time Hashirama had seen him – he’d swapped out the dark hoodie for a black button-down shirt, rolled up to the elbows. His hair was tied up high on his head, but even so reached halfway down his back. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a sharp glitter in his eyes as he aimed. His clothes were conspicuously bare of any insignias.

Hashirama watched the narrow cords of his arm snap, and saw the dart slam dead center in the board. The crowd erupted. Madara allowed himself a brief, triumphant smirk, as sharp as a knife, and turned to face the room.

Hashirama felt breathless. The pink drink had probably not been a good idea.

Their eyes locked over the heads of the crowd – Hashirama was too tall to hide, wouldn’t have wanted to regardless – and the grin fell from of Madara’s face like a stone.

“Keep the pot, I don’t want it,” Hashirama heard him tell his competitor as he moved toward the door. People were still cheering, and cash was exchanging hands as they slapped him on the back. Hashirama briefly wished he’d have gotten there sooner. He liked winning, after all, and a bet on Madara when it came to hand-eye coordination was practically an _investment_.

Madara came to a stop in front of him. Hashirama wished he could think of something to say, but nothing came out when he opened his mouth. People were swarming around them – they were standing in the doorway. “Let’s get out of the way,” he suggested. Madara nodded, and followed him further down the hall.

The bathroom was empty. Hashirama pulled Madara inside and shut the door. They could still feel the reverberating music through the soles of their feet, but in here, Hashirama could hear himself think.

“So,” Madara said. He crossed his arms as he leaned against the sink. “You’re in Konoha.”

Hashirama blinked at him. “I’m in Konoha? Three years and that’s what you open with. Madara, I should be the one saying that to _you_ , I thought you left!”

This wasn’t what Madara had been expecting. “Why would I have left?” he said, nonplussed.

“Why did you think _I’d_ left?”

“Because that’s what I was – look, fine, we were both in Konoha. It’s fine.” Madara shook his head, ponytail swishing behind him.

“… Are you okay?” Hashirama asked. As soon as the question left his lips, he regretted it. Madara was clearly not okay. He looked haggard, and gaunt. The ever-present circles under his eyes looked like purple bruises. He was rail-thin – Hashirama realized he was thinner than Izuna, and something uncomfortable churned in his gut at the realization.

“I’m alive,” Madara said shortly. He looked away from Hashirama, fingers picking at a loose thread in his shirt sleeve. He still hadn’t uncrossed his arms.

There were so many questions on Hashirama’s lips. Who told him Hashirama had left? Why didn’t he try to contact him? What happened to him after the police had come? Where was he living now? Was it still with the rest of his family, or had he found his own place? _Are you eating enough?_ _Are you still in school?_

What Hashirama said was, “I met Izuna downstairs.”

A shadow of a smile crossed over Madara’s face. “My little brother. Did he tell you where to find me?”

“Not in so many words, no.”

“He wouldn’t. He’s a sneaky little bitch sometimes.” He gave a dry chuckle. “You know, he’s the one that sent me into your shop the other day.”

Hashirama laughed. It only sounded a little strained. “Yeah, I was wondering about that… what was up with that plant you wanted?”

Madara waved dismissively. “Something this boy mentioned to him the other day. Izuna, being Izuna, assumed it meant that it was something he _wanted_ , and sent me to go get it for him.”

“What a dutiful older brother you are.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” Madara pushed off of the sink and came towards the door. “Look, it’s getting late, and I have to catch a bus. I’ll see you around, Hashirama.” His name came out of the other man’s lips in a near-whisper.

Hashirama’s mouth felt dry. “Wait a second,” he said.

Madara paused again, bemused. “You keep doing that,” he said. “I _do_ need to go.”

“I know, but – ” Hashirama fished his phone out of his pocket. “What’s your number?”

Madara stared at him, eyebrows high on his forehead. He looked surprised, and Hashirama had no idea why.

“Your number,” Hashirama insisted, wiggling his phone in the other man’s face. “You phone number.”

“I know what you meant,” Madara said. He sounded strangled. “I just – fine.”

Hashirama quickly keyed him in under a new contact, feeling oddly triumphant. Then he looked up again, brows furrowing – “Did you say you had to catch a _bus_?”

Madara drew in on himself, and checked his phone performatively. “Yes, in… four minutes.”

“I can drive you.”

“I would rather you didn’t.”

“But – ”

“Hashirama,” Madara said. “Just text me.” With that, he slipped out of the bathroom, leaving Hashirama with the sinking feeling that he’d messed up somewhere. He looked down at his phone, and shot off a quick text.

_\- 9:26PM_

_Hey, it’s Hashirama_

There was no response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet! Lol, poor hashirama. did he think it'd be easy?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter has some depression, suicidal ideation, and a paisley polo shirt. Proceed with caution.

- _Izuna 20:33_

_hey bro ur still here right_

_\- 20:34_

_For now. Why_

_-Izuna 20:34_

_where r u_

_\- 20:35_

_Darts._

* * *

_-xxx-xxx-1952 21:26_

_Hey, it’s Hashirama_

* * *

_\- 21:37_

_Izuna you bastard_

_-Izuna 21:55_

_did u leave???_

_madara r u still here ro did u go home_

_plss repsnd I need 2 nknow ur safe_

_-Izuna 22:06_

_im 2 drunk fojr ythis madra_

_do not makr me drve over there_

_\- 22:10_

_Don’t drive anywhere. I’m fine._

_-Izuna 22:11_

_r u rsure ur fine_

_ur home??_

_\- 22:12_

_Yes, I’m home._

* * *

Morning dawned, but Madara was not awake to see it. When he stumbled through the door last night, he shucked off everything he was wearing on a path to the futon and collapsed on it without ceremony.

When he awoke it was to a deep sense of disorientation. There was a weak grey light filtering in through his closed window blinds. Madara had no idea what time it was. He pulled his phone off the charger – he didn’t even remember plugging it in – and squinted at the clock.

_17:33_

“ _Fuck_ ,” Madara hissed. He was late. Not that anyone was expecting him anywhere, but there were things to do at the Conservatory. He could always find things to do – Takamaru needed to be fed, Kuruma was due to be weighed again, Garuda needed another training session flying to his stump and back –

Madara rolled on his back and pulled his pillow over his face. It made him feel guilty, but there was nothing in the world he wanted more than to just sink into his shitty futon and never wake up. Someone would come look after the birds, he half-reasoned. Senju Butsuma would find someone to staff the Conservatory. Madara knew from experience that if he just… stayed here, if he locked his front door and closed his blinds, that no one would come looking for him. Wouldn’t that be easier? Just lie here, just wait for the hunger to stop. Wait for everything to stop. He’d been eating like shit, he knew – he’d last maybe a week, maybe two, and his landlord would find him sometime the next month when the rent went unpaid…

Senju Butsuma’d probably be relieved to be rid of him.

It was that thought that galvanized him into action. Rage had a helpful way of bringing Madara into the light – it was clarifying, in a way so few things were these days. Madara rolled off the futon into a plank and held himself there, balancing on the balls of his feet and hands. Then, in one swift motion, he bent his elbows until his nose touched the ground. He held himself there for one long moment, nose barely brushing the carpet fibers. Then he threw himself up so quickly he felt his elbows pop. Then he did it again.

Most days, Madara’s veins felt like they were full of mud. His brain was running at half capacity, skipping and sputtering like an engine starving for fuel. It was only the thought of the injustice of what had happened to his clan that cleared the fog anymore – which was honestly funny, because Madara had no right to care what happened to his clan. No, not _his_ clan – Madara had no right to care what happened to the _Uchiha_ clan.

Who cared if they used to rival the Senju Corporation in influence and reach? Who cared if their name used to be synonymous with power, political strength, respect? Who cares that his clan _founded_ that University? All the clan had left now was a few commemorative plaques around the city, an old family compound near the ancient city gates, and the fucking _Conservatory_. It didn’t matter if he lived or died. It didn’t matter if _any_ of them lived or died. The Uchiha clan was dead. Long live the Uchiha clan.

Madara’s arms were screaming. His breath was coming in ragged gasps. On the 50th pushup, his right arm buckled, causing him to collapse into the side of the futon. Madara lied there for a moment, feeling his lungs expand his ribcage, feeling his right shoulder throb where it had hit the couch.

Senju Butsuma was the reason he wasn’t in jail right now. Thus, it followed that Senju Butsuma was someone to whom Madara should be _grateful_. Senju Butsuma had taken over sponsorship of the Conservatory after the incident. Senju Butsuma had allowed his clan to retain their ancestral home, when he could’ve just as easily bought it out from under them. Senju Butsuma’s scholarship was paying for Izuna’s college. Butsuma, Butsuma, Butsuma.

Madara gritted his teeth hard enough to make them ache.

There were a few emotions Madara felt towards Senju Butsuma, and gratitude was not among them – but hate was. Oh, god, did Madara feel hate. Every day he woke up was spit in Butsuma’s face. Every morning Madara got up and considered his options, and without fail, he chose the most inconvenient one, which was to continue breathing in Senju Butsuma’s air. Senju Butsuma was just waiting for him to roll over and kill himself, and Madara was determined to continue living out of _sheer spite._

(There was a simple truth, though, that Madara only acknowledged in the dead of night – in the brief moments where he stopped lying to himself and honestly assessed his position in the world. The truth was that he didn’t think even _Senju Butsuma_ cared one way or the other what happened to him.)

Madara’s phone buzzed. He reached a hand up onto the futon and fumbled around for it blindly.

_\- xxx-xxx-1952 18:59_

_Are you busy?_

Madara stared uncomprehendingly. Was he busy? Who is this? He scrolled up to the previous text and – oh.

 _Oh_.

He’d met Hashirama again last night.

He’d met and spoken to Hashirama and he’d given him his _number_.

Madara’s hatred for Senju Butsuma was just barely eclipsed by his hatred for himself. Why did he agree to go to that party? Why did he let Hashirama pull him aside – out of pity, sure, because why else would Hashirama want to talk to _him,_ of all people?

_\- xxx-xxx-1952 19:04_

_Just FYI, you have read receipts on. LOL._

That little bitch.

_\- 19:05_

_Who is this_

_\- xxx-xxx-1952 19:05_

_It’s Hashirama!!!_

He contemplated sending him a curt, “Who?” but another text popped on screen before he could type it.

_\- xxx-xxx-1952 19:06_

_OK so I’m going to be honest with you – I know you’re not busy._

Madara waited, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

_\- xxx-xxx-1952 19:06_

_Which is why I asked Tobirama to ask Izuna for your address and I’m actually in my car outside._

Madara launched himself to the window. Sure enough, idling on the cracked pavement outside was an unfamiliar green car. Madara felt hysterical. He fought down the flash of white-hot shame that Hashirama was able to see just how far he’d fallen – the apartment wasn’t exactly in the _best_ of neighborhoods – and quickly hammered out a response.

_\- 19:07_

_Who’s Tobirama_

_How did you get Iznua’s number_

_\- xxx-xxx-1952 19:07_

_That’s classified for people who are in this car…_

_…Which could be you!_

_Come downstairs._

_God, Hashirama was still so fucking lame._ Madara dragged a hand down his face and took a deep sigh, eyes closed. Then he stooped down and fished a clean shirt out of his duffle bag – plain black, like all of his other shirts. There was no Uchiha fan on the back. He didn’t bother looking in the mirror before he left the apartment. He knew what he looked like.

Anxiety and something else churned in his gut as he walked down his apartment’s front stairs. He jammed his hands in his pockets and tried to think of something to say as he approached the dark green car.

It had tinted windows. Of course it had tinted windows.

As Madara neared, the passenger’s side window rolled down and Hashirama, with a blinding smile, said, “Hello!” He was wearing paisley.

Madara cocked his head and said, “What do you want?”

“I’m taking you to dinner!”

Madara’s mouth twisted in disgust, and he opened it to say, _No, thank you, I was busy, I don’t need your charity, don’t you have babies to kiss_ , etc., but the minute his lips parted Hashirama’s entire body slumped against the driver’s seat. His head lolled forwards, dark hair eclipsing his face. He was the picture of black depression.

“Unless…” he said, “… unless you don’t want to spend time with me…”

Madara immediately caved. “ _Shut the fuck up_ ,” he hissed as he flung open the passenger door.

Hashirama sent him a doleful look through a curtain of hair. “Are you _sure?_ ” he asked. “I mean… I get it… I wouldn’t want to go eat with me either…”

“Shut up! We’re eating! Start driving!”

Hashirama didn’t even bother to hide his impish grin as he pulled the car into reverse. “Sushi or noodles?”

“Are those my only choices?” Madara’s arms were crossed over his chest. He was trying not to touch anything. Why did the car smell like dirt?

“Yes,” Hashirama said.

“Sushi, then.” Madara’s eyes glanced over at the driver’s side. “You seem…” He struggled with what he wanted to say. _You seem better than last night?_ Hashirama wasn’t looking at him like he’d come back from the dead anymore, which was a plus. “… good,” he finished.

Hashirama shrugged. “I get by,” he said, which meant absolutely nothing to Madara, who could also reasonably say he ‘got by.’

Madara didn’t press, though. He didn’t want to damage whatever this fragile peace was between them, and that meant accepting Hashirama’s bullshit evasions. For now.

“Where’s your wedding ring?” Fragile peace though it may be, Madara was simply not a diplomatic person.

Hashirama laughed. It sounded forced. “Oh, that,” he said. “Well, we were never actually married, remember? We were just engaged. Mito’s father called it off after… the…”

Madara leaned back in his seat. He understood. “Hn,” he said. “I’m sorry.” It was a paltry apology, but what else could he say? Destroying his marriage was just another thing to add on the list. The list was named, _Ways He’s Ruined Senju Hashirama’s Life_. It was a short list, but everything on it was a show-stopping hit in its own way.

“Sorry?” Hashirama said. He actually twisted around to briefly look at Madara. “What’re you…” Whatever he saw seemed to answer his question. When he turned to look back at the road, his shoulders were straight with tension. “Well,” he continued. “It was for the best, honestly. Mito told me later she thinks she’s more into women _anyway_ , and wouldn’t _that_ have been awkward a few years in?” Another forced laugh. “And… I had my own reasons for calling it off."

Madara didn’t ask. He didn’t deserve to know. He watched the smooth line of Hashirama’s throat descend into his shirt and mourned the fact that this man was wearing _a paisley polo._ Madara hoped wherever they were going had inarizushi.

* * *

Somewhere else, under a bright UV light, a flower bud slowly began to crack open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's commented or left kudos!! Also, if you want a visual aid for Hashirama's outfit, click here: https://ancharan.tumblr.com/post/617216616082571264/ancharan-this-next-chapter-will-have-trigger


	6. Chapter 6

Madara was sitting at his elbow, and there was a bowl of sake in his hand. Hashirama felt alive.

“And then the dumbass tried to pick the bird _up_ – ” Madara said, gesticulating wildly. “ – Which of _course_ didn’t work, he wasn’t even wearing a _glove_ , the idiot – ”

Hashirama watched him talk, watched the way his thin fingers held the chopsticks, watched the way his eyes reflected the dim light in the bar. Hashirama laughed at his story and felt himself sink a little deeper.

How long had he known Madara? It felt like forever. Had they really only met four years ago?

Hashirama steadfastly did not notice the way Madara’s lips touched the _o-choko_ as he drank his sake. He did _not_ look at the tender skin at the base of his jaw. He _certainly_ didn’t think about how it would feel to thread his fingers through Madara’s thick, dark hair.

“God, I fucking love inarizushi.” Madara said through a mouth full of rice.

Hashirama snorted. “The most boring thing on the menu,” he said fondly.

“To you, maybe,” Madara said derisively. He opened his mouth, as if to continue, then paused.

Hashirama cocked his head and waited.

“Do you… did you ever actually finish college?”

The question came out of left field. Hashirama had the feeling that it wasn’t what Madara had originally intended to ask.

“No,” he said. He poured himself another bowl of sake. “I left pretty soon after everything. My father… we spent some time working on a project of his, and when that failed, he gave me funds to open my flower shop. I pretty much stayed there ever since.”

At the mention of Senju Butsuma, something dark clouded Madara’s eyes. It cleared quickly. “I see,” he said.

“What have you been up to?” Hashirama asked.

The question seemed to weigh heavily on Madara. He licked his lips – Hashirama tried to ignore this – and said, “Well, once I got out of jail – ”

“You were in _jail_?”

Madara shot him a look of disbelief. “Of _course_ I was in jail. I – ” He stopped short. His fingers were tapping out a staccato beat on the bar surface. “I was in jail for about a week,” he said lowly. He was barely muttering.

Hashirama was floored. He was staring, he knew, but really, who could blame him? Why hadn’t he known this? From what he remembered, Butsuma had –

Hashirama’s phone was ringing.

Hashirama fished it out of his pocket. Tobirama was calling him.

“Hello?” he said, casting a concerned glance at Madara.

“Hashirama, 145-B – ” Tobirama sounded breathless. “Hashirama, it’s blooming!”

“Do you need me there?” Hashirama said urgently.

“No,” Tobirama said. “It’s still in its case, I’m running tests right now – Hashirama, father’s going to lose his mind when he sees this recording – ” Whatever Senju Butsuma’s reaction was going to be, Hashirama doubted it would come close to ‘losing his mind.’

Madara was resting his chin on his fist propped up on the bar.

“Hashirama, whatever you’ve been doing, _keep_ doing it,” Tobirama said.

“I really don’t think I have anything to do with it, Tobirama,” Hashirama said. “We’re going downtown in the morning, I guess?”

“Pick me up at 7.”

“Got it,” Hashirama said. He ended the call and stayed there for a second, thumb pressed against the smooth phone screen.

“Good news?” Madara said. He paused and cocked his head. “Or bad? I couldn’t really tell.”

“Good news!” Hashirama told him. He wasn’t trying to convince himself – he knew it was good news! Great! Butsuma was going to be thrilled.

“Hm,” Madara said, looking unconvinced.

“Look, Madara – ” 

“Is it about that plant?”

Hashirama’s question died in his throat. He told himself to stay calm. Madara didn’t remember. He knew Madara didn’t remember, because if Madara _remembered_ he wouldn’t have come to _dinner_ with him.

“Your brother’s the one who sent Izuna that picture,” Madara continued when Hashirama didn’t say anything. He grabbed another piece of sushi between his chopsticks and looked at it critically. “And your reaction when I went in your shop was… weird.” He chewed slowly, looking out over the bar thoughtfully. “I mean, so was I. But… you especially, now that I think about it.” Madara tilted his head towards Hashirama and levelled a dark eye at him. “Just a guess.”

“Good guess,” Hashirama said finally. “He was calling me about the plant.”

Madara ate another piece of sushi.

Hashirama set his elbows on the counter and poured them both more sake.

“What do you… remember?” Hashirama said around his _o-choko._ “From three years ago?”

The bar was too quiet. Hashirama regretted bringing them here. He didn’t want Madara to feel trapped – but at this point he almost felt trapped himself.

“What do you mean?” Madara said. He delicately set his fingers on top of his cup.

“You know what I mean,” Hashirama said. “I think… we’re remembering different things. Because there’re things I _know_ happened, and you don’t seem to recall them. And I think _you_ might remember something _I_ don’t.”

“What do you remember that I don’t? Hashirama.”

“I remember that plant.”

This made Madara turn to look at him fully. “The dick plant,” he said flatly. “That night. Are you fucking with me, Hashirama?” There was a hard edge to his voice, a cold anger that was visible in the taut lines of his shoulders.

Hashirama was decidedly _not_ fucking with him. He felt like he was walking along a tightrope over a pit of snakes – something in him knew that if he said the wrong thing here it would mean the end of this. Whatever this was.

“It didn’t look like a dick then,” Hashirama said tightly. “It was… there were vines. Branches. And the flowers were open. Do you remember the smell at all?” _He_ remembered the smell. He thought he would probably remember it until he died. Thick, cloying – like perfume that had spent too long in the bottle. The kind of smell that clung to your clothes and hair.

Madara was silent. His _o-choko_ dangled, forgotten, from his hand. “I remember,” he said quietly. “I remember a smell. I hadn’t…” He suddenly downed the sake in one swift motion. “I was a little distracted – ” he said roughly. “ – by the man I was _beating_ _to death_ in our dorm room. But yeah, now that you mention it, I do remember a smell.”

“There were flowers,” Hashirama said quietly. “I don’t know where they came from, but when _he_ came into the room – do you remember what he said?”

“I remember what he called you.”

“I don’t. All I can remember is the branches coming through the floor and the flowers. I think…” Hashirama paused. He didn’t want to say it. He didn’t want to say it because if he said it, Madara might confirm it, and that would be the end of it because all of this would have been Hashirama’s fault.

He said it anyway.

“I think it was the flowers that made you both snap.”

Madara stood so quickly the stool clattered to the ground. The server at the far end of the bar looked up at him, startled.

“Take me home.”

Hashirama was motionless.

“ _Take. Me_. _Home_.” Madara was trembling. “ _Hashirama_.”

“I didn’t want this to go like this,” Hashirama said.

“You didn’t want – oh, I’m sorry.” Madara pulled Hashirama off of his stool and got right in his face. His voice was a harsh whisper. “You didn’t want to bring up memories of the night I murdered my father in front of you. I see.”

“Your _father_? Madara – ”

Madara shook his head, the wild tangle of his hair shuddering like leaves. “I’m done,” he said. “I’m leaving.” He went for the door, and paused, one hand on the handle. “For what it’s worth, Hashirama, I didn’t want this to go like this either.” Then he was gone.

* * *

_\- Tobirama 9:44PM_

_What did you do????_

_\- 10:02PM_

_What are you talking about??_

_\- Tobirama 10:05PM_

_[Picture Attached]_

_The plant, Hashirama! What happened? Why did it close??_

_-Tobirama 10:40PM_

_Hashirama_

_We’re going to have to explain this to Butsuma tomorrow_

_Are you okay?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one gets to be happy tonight! No one!!!!!! *gun emoji*


	7. Chapter 7

_There was blood in the air._

_Hashirama was saying something – his mouth was moving – but Madara heard no sound. His world was narrowed to a pinpoint, and that pinpoint was Uchiha Tajima’s face. Madara’s blood was singing in his veins. He heard another crash, and something like glass breaking. It was hard to breathe through the haze._

_Tajima’s head snapped backwards. Madara was straddling his torso. Punching wasn’t enough – he needed to see the man **bleed**_. _He seized his father’s hair and slammed his skull into the ground again and again and **again** – _

* * *

Madara let out a piercing whistle.

Kuruma was on him in seconds, a sleek black scar in the bright sky, rocketing down to his glove.

“Well done,” Madara told the bird, as he ripped into the squirrel haunch held in his fist. Madara gathered the ends of Kuruma’s jesses and began to walk back towards the Conservatory grounds.

The wind was lively today, shuddering the upper branches of the trees. Kuruma flapped his wings, steading himself. He was getting bigger than Madara had expected – they’d need to expand his mew if he kept growing at this rate.

* * *

_“Of course Hashirama is safe.” Senju Butsuma’s eyes were cold and hard. “Although I couldn’t guarantee he would stay that way if he stayed here. You Uchiha’s…” A humorless chuckle. “You’re a savage bunch. Did you even see your father’s body, afterwards? Looked like it had gone through a meat tenderizer.”_

* * *

Madara gently lowered his hand. Kuruma shuffled his feet, but didn’t step backwards, which was frustrating. Madara lowered his hand again. Kuruma didn’t budge.

“You’re going to get weighed today one way or another,” Madara warned. Kuruma chirped and cocked his head.

Madara, again, gently tried to encourage him to step onto the scale. Kuruma, again, simply flared his tail feathers and gripped tighter on Madara’s leather glove.

* * *

_“Madara, Tajima’s will – ”_

_“ – question of succession – ”_

_“ – you understand, of course, this is temporary – ”_

* * *

_Thump thump thump._

Madara lifted his head, groggily.

_Thump thump thump thump._

“Madara,” came a muffled voice. “I know you’re in there, Madara. Open the door.”

_Thump thump thump._

Madara put his head back down and closed his eyes.

_-Izuna 16:37_

_open the door_

_madara im serious open the door_

_-Izuna 16:50_

_fine_

* * *

_\- slammed his skull into the ground again and again and again –_

* * *

Madara woke up to the sound of a faint _click_.

Someone had just unlocked his front door.

Madara didn’t move an inch. What could they do? Steal from him? He had nothing worth stealing. They could kill him, he guessed?

His front door swung open.

“God, I can’t believe he’s still living like this.”

Madara’s eyes flew open and he shoved himself into a sitting position. “ _Kagami_?”

“Yo,” Kagami said, twirling a set of hooks around his finger. He’d picked the front door. Madara felt a bizarre sense of pride for his clever little cousin. He also felt rage, because his cousin had just _broken into his house._

Before he could say anything, Izuna came into the room. He looked exhausted. “I did ask you to open the door, Madara.”

Madara bared his teeth.

“Calm down, jesus.” Kagami pocketed the picks and wandered into the kitchenette.

Izuna shut the front door and posted himself in front of it, arms folded across his chest. Madara felt caged in. “So,” he said. “Are you going to tell me why Senju Hashirama was crying on our couch last night?”

Madara glared at him dully. He didn’t know why Hashirama was on their couch last night. They night they’d eaten sushi was the day before last.

Izuna craned his neck at the ceiling and sighed.

“Why don’t you have any _plates_?” Kagami asked, head and shoulders buried in the kitchen cupboards. “Or _forks_?”

“Madara,” Izuna said firmly. “You need to come home.”

“I am home,” Madara said mulishly.

“Bullshit. You call this a home?” Izuna scoffed. “You went to prison for a week three years ago and you took the cell with you. Get over yourself.”

“A little harsh, Izuna,” Kagami interjected.

“I don’t care if it’s harsh or not!” Izuna took a step towards Madara, stabbing a finger at him. “ _You need to get over this._ Our clan needs you, asshole.”

“Hikaku wants to retire.” Kagami tossed over his shoulder.

“Oh, you want me to kill him too?” Madara said.

“ _Fuck_ you,” Izuna hissed. “That’s not fucking funny.”

“I don’t know, it seems pretty hilarious to me,” Madara said. He unfolded his legs and stood, stretching. “You’re so insistent I come home and pretend like everything’s fine, that I think you might have actually forgotten – I _did_ kill our father. I killed him with my bare hands – and you know _what_ , Izuna?” He was nose-to-nose with his younger brother now. “ _I would do it again_. Uchiha Tajima was a fucking lunatic.”

“That’s not why you killed him.” Izuna’s voice was steady. “I read the reports, Madara. The whole clan did.”

“What’s your argument here, exactly?”

“He was going to kill Hashirama.”

“ _And?”_

“ _And_ that makes it self-defense. He came to _your_ dorm room and attacked your roommate.”

“Right, you’re right. That completely justifies it. Our father might as well have killed _himself!_ ” Madara laughed. “Incredible the court-ordered therapy didn’t try going this route. It all seems so reasonable now!”

“Madara…” It was Kagami speaking. Madara’s hair whipped around him as he turned to face his cousin. “No one’s saying they’re happy with the way things turned out. It would definitely be easier if Tajima were still alive.” Kagami paused, fingers lacing together. “But… what you said earlier, about…”

“What Kagami’s trying to say is, you were right. Tajima was insane.” Izuna finished flatly. “It was only a matter of time before something like this happened. I _know_ – ” His voice rose sharply as Madara opened his mouth. “ – I _know_ that doesn’t make it right! It will never make it right!”

“Can you just leave me alone?” Madara said. He brought his hands to his face and scrubbed vigorously at his eyes. “I’m so fucking tired, Izuna. You think I haven’t thought of this before? My mind’s been running in these circles for years. I know all these arguments. I know he was crazy. I know it was self-defense. I know Hashirama would _probably_ be _dead_ now if I hadn’t been there.” He shook his head. “The thing is – it doesn’t matter. None of that matters. I killed our father, Izuna. I don’t get to be forgiven for that, let _alone_ be made head of the clan. It doesn’t matter what anyone else says – it doesn’t even matter if they say they forgive me,” Madara said, cutting off Kagami. “ _I_ can’t forgive it.”

“I don’t really care about forgiveness,” Kagami said as Madara finished. “All I know is, we need a leader, or else the clan’s going to break apart.” There was a brief pause. “It’s not like there isn’t precedent, anyway.”

Madara stared flatly. “… _Precedent.”_

“Legally speaking, yeah.” Kagami looked uncomfortable. “It’s one of those old clan laws from way back in the day. When… I guessed this sort of thing was more common?”

“It’s part of the succession acts,” Izuna said. “You have an obligation. Legally speaking.”

Madara sneered. “Oh, now you’re a lawyer, too?”

“No,” Izuna said frostily. “But Itachi _is_.”

“ _Itachi._ You’re bringing _Itachi_ into this.”

“Itachi’s already in it!” Izuna exploded. “We all are! How do I get it through to you that the _whole clan_ is involved in this?!”

“Madara, the court doesn’t recognize Hikaku as clan head,” Kagami said. “He was only supposed to be the interim leader. He doesn’t have legal authority to represent the family in Konoha.”

Madara processed this. This was new information. He sat down on the futon with a _thump_. “… What does Hashirama have to do with this?” he said slowly.

Izuna rolled his eyes. “The Senju has freaky plant powers. We’ll get to that in a second. Stay on topic.”

“He _what?_ ”

“I said stay on topic. What will it take to bring you home?”

Madara was silent. His mouth moved wordlessly.

“Oh,” Kagami said. “Izuna, have you told him about the merger?”

Izuna sucked air in through his teeth. “Ah. Fuck. No.” To Madara, he said, “There’s another thing. You remember that one manufacturer of ours? The one that made the concrete mixture, or whatever.”

Madara looked up at him, nonplussed. “The one we bought out from the Hyuuga, like, fifty years ago. Caged Bird Sealants or something. Yeah. Why?”

“It’s our only business left,” Izuna said blandly.

“ _What_? How?” Madara was on his feet now.

“How do you _think_ , genius? Someone’s been snapping up our stocks like they’re playing Hungry Hungry Hippos.”

“Great analogy, Kagami. Really illustrative.” Izuna turned back to Madara. “Senju Butsuma,” he said, as if it explained everything.

In a way, it did.

“What’s the merger?” Madara said, focusing on the far wall. Anything to avoid looking Izuna or Kagami in their faces.

Izuna cocked his head, bird-like. “He’s trying to gain executive control over the concrete company. He’s actually trying to get the city to grant him control on the basis of – what was it, Kagami?”

“’Absence of qualified clan leadership,’” Kagami said. “The argument being that the Uchiha clan can’t manage its own affairs, and thus cannot be entrusted to manage an important ‘economic powerhouse’ like the Caged Bird company. He actually said that, in the hearing. ‘Economic powerhouse.’”

“Hm,” Madara said.

“Itachi tried to explain to me how this is _legal,_ because on its face it obviously seems fucked up, but he started talking about denationalization and privatization laws and ‘ _the reapportionment of clan property’_ and I just kinda tuned him out.” Kagami shrugged.

Izuna was watching him closely.

“You know,” Kagami continued unabashedly. “If there _was_ one guy I think you should go kill, it would be Senju Butsu – ”

“Kagami, shut _up_ ,” Izuna said.

Madara walked over to the window. There was a beetle clinging to the outside screen. “How long has this been going on?” he said lowly, leaning against the wall.

“A while,” Izuna said. “At least since Tajima’s death. Maybe before.”

“Hm.” _Why hadn’t anyone said anything?_ Madara thought that, and immediately knew the answer – because the presumptive heir was a useless piece of shit who’d rather play with birds all day than face his actual responsibilities. He wouldn’t have trusted him with clan business, either. “Izuna, why aren’t you trying to become clan head?” he asked, watching the beetle crawl along the window frame.

Izuna made a disgusted face. “First, because I’d be bad at it. Second, I’m still in college, and I fully intend to graduate sooner or later. And third, because _you’re still alive_ , and you’re the oldest son.”

“Senju Butsuma,” Madara muttered. He saw Izuna and Kagami exchange looks out of the corner of his eye. The beetle’s carapace opened, and it flew out over the parking lot on thin, gossamer wings.

_You Uchiha’s… you’re a savage bunch._

Madara’s hand curled into a fist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're getting there! and izuna's actually wrong about the Caged Bird Company. they made specialty lacquers and sealants, not concrete. ;P


	8. Chapter 8

Tobirama’s house was pretty boring, by all accounts. It had an upstairs, a downstairs, a back patio… Vinyl siding. It was the very image of a small suburban rental.

The basement was where things got interesting. The first thing people noticed when going downstairs was the sudden change in lighting. There was a sharp divide between the warm light from the incandescent bulbs upstairs to the sterile fluorescent lights hanging from the basement ceiling. Lining the wall directly across from the staircase was a row of countertops, covered with autoclaves, digital scales, homogenizers, microscopes – a bizarre and eclectic mix of scientific equipment, all clearly well used. The counter cabinets had been replaced with a squat row of refrigerators with double-paned glass doors. The doors were labelled by sample types.

Continuing around the perimeter of the room, pushed against the wall opposite the staircase were two squat incubators and a broken autoclave that served as a table for a desktop computer. There was an old printer in the corner that clicked out a small string of data every 60 seconds. The wall beside the base of the staircase was taken up by a massive hermetically sealed glass case. Strong UV bulbs illuminated the small terracotta pot inside. There was a small steel tag hanging from the front of the case that said, in tiny black letters, _145-B._

Hashirama was sitting at a collapsible metal table in the center of the room, chin resting on this hands, staring at the case.

“You have a week,” Tobirama said. “We will figure this out, brother. I won’t let him send you away.”

Hashirama made a noncommittal noise.

Yesterday, Senju Butsuma had been furious. His patience, he had told Hashirama, was finally beginning to run out. Butsuma was a firm believer in the power of deadlines. Deadlines, he had said, clarified the world. Butsuma’s solution to the lack of progress was simple – Hashirama would have one week to get the flower bud open. If there was no progress at the end of the week, Butsuma would sell his flower shop and ship him off to manage a factory somewhere overseas.

Despite all appearances, Hashirama wasn’t actually trying to sabotage this project. If there was money to be made from the chemicals in this plant, of _course_ Hashirama wanted his family to be the ones to patent it. It wasn’t his fault all attempts to artificially replicate it had failed. _It wasn’t_.

**– _The flowers were open._ ** _The flowers were open and the thick perfume clung to the back of Hashirama’s throat. Madara’s hand was fisted in his father’s hair as he straddled the older man’s chest, and he **slammed** down – _

“Hashirama,” Tobirama snapped his fingers in front of his face. “Hey. Are you listening to me?”

“Yeah,” Hashirama said.

“I asked what you were doing the night before last,” Tobirama repeated. He leaned a hip against the folding table and crossed his arms. “I have everything controlled and accounted for regarding the plant itself,” he continued. “You’re the biggest variable here.”

“Aren’t I always?” Hashirama sighed. “Night before last I was having sushi.”

Tobirama squinted. “Sushi.”

“With Madara,” Hashirama clarified.

Tobirama looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. “Ah,” he said. He pushed off from the table. “Well, that’s a start.”

“A start?” Hashirama asked dully.

“Think about it, Hashirama. These flowers bloomed twice – night before last, and during the incident. What do both of those events both have in common?”

“Uchiha Madara?”

Tobirama sighed. “I’m going to go upstairs and get some coffee. We might need to bring him in on this if we want to see any progress. I need to go wash my hands.” He looked disgusted with himself.

Hashirama grimaced. Despite his completely unplanned visit to Izuna the other day, Hashirama really wasn’t feeling any better about the way their last meeting had gone. Madara probably hated him! Izuna’s reassurances to the contrary didn’t help much compared to his last memory of Madara’s snarling face.

For lack of anything else to do, Hashirama checked his phone.

- _Madara 8:15PM_

_Hashirama._

_We need to talk._

Speak of the devil. Was it really going to be this easy?

_\- 8:40PM_

_Madara!!_

_First off please let me apologize_

_It was incredibly rude of me to bring up everything that happened like that_

_-Madara 8:41PM_

_I’m going to stop you right there._

_I don’t blame you, Hashirama._

_Flowers or no, I am still responsible for what I did._

_I need to talk to you about your father._

_Is there somewhere we can meet?_

The texts were coming in a rush. He’d never seen Madara respond this quickly to anyone before.

_\- 8:41PM_

_Theres actually something I need your help with as well_

_Can I pick you up??_

_\- Madara 8:42PM_

_No. I’ll take a bus._

_Send me the address._

“Stubborn,” Hashirama muttered.

_\- 8:42PM_

_Its Tobiramas hosue_

_You were here at the party_

_Itll be faster if you let me give you a ride!!_

No response. Hashirama dropped the phone on the tabletop with a clatter and ground his palms into his eyes.

Tobirama was holding two identical mugs as he walked down the stairs.

“You might need to make another one,” Hashirama said, accepting it gratefully. “Madara’s on his way over.”

“What?! Now?” Tobirama looked alarmed. “When – did he just text you? Did you text him? When will he get here?”

“He texted me, and, an hour or so, probably. He’s taking the bus.”

“Okay. Alright. That’ll give me time to hide all our clan secrets.” Tobirama was trying to make a joke, Hashirama realized. He smiled, mostly out of sympathy, and took a sip of the coffee – and _god_ that was bad coffee. _What did Tobirama do to these poor grounds?_ “Hashirama, I’ve been wanting to ask you something. Madara… he…” His brother struggled with the words. “… Madara’s never… _hurt_ you in any way, has he?”

Hashirama stared at him uncomprehendingly. “Uh,” he said.

Tobirama flushed bright pink. “I’m just asking if – I know you two were close when you were roommates, but everything after – he didn’t – ” He sighed in frustration. “He’s never… made any unwanted advances on you or anything, has he?”

Hashirama boggled at him. “Tobirama, _what_? _No,_ ” he said. A peal of laughter was fighting its way up his throat. “Tobirama, Madara’s one of the gentlest people I know!” He could scarcely dare to dream of Madara even _accepting_ any kind of advances, let alone make any on his own.

“Gentle,” Tobirama repeated flatly. “You’re calling this man _gentle_. Okay. Are we pretending he didn’t crush Uchiha Tajima’s brains into your dorm room carpet, or…?”

“There were extenuating circumstances,” Hashirama said. “He works with injured birds for a living, Tobirama.”

“He trains those birds to _kill things_ , but fine.” Tobirama made a cutting motion through the air with his empty hand. “Sure. Whatever. I’m just trying to make sure this isn’t, like – Stockholm Syndrome or something – ”

“You… really don’t like Madara, do you?” Hashirama said, grinning. He propped his head up on his hand. “Tobirama, what’s he done to _you?_ Was the big scary Uchiha mean to you?”

“You’re fine! Whatever! Don’t come crying back to me when you wake up missing a kidney.”

“Aw, Tobirama. We have your blessing? That’s so sweet.” He paused. “This isn’t… about Izuna, is it?” Hashirama stared at Tobirama seriously. “ _Has_ he done anything to you? Are you alright, Tobirama?”

“No!" Tobirama yelped. "No - I'm - I’m _fine_ and so is _he_ ,” he said, the pink blush darkening into a deep cherry. “Izuna is – this is – it’s none of your _business_ , Hashirama. Nothing has happened that we didn’t _want_ to happen –” Tobirama’s mouth snapped shut. He looked mortified.

There was a knock upstairs. All the bravado left Hashirama in a rush.

“Oh, thank god,” Tobirama said. He tromped up the stairs, taking a deep swig out of his mug as he went.

Hashirama could hear a brief, muted exchange. Then, footsteps towards the stairwell. He stood up, pushing back the metal chair.

Madara looked… better. As he descended further into the basement, into the brighter light, it was even more obvious – he had a certain steely quality to his gaze. Or maybe it was an absence of uncertainty? Everything about him projected confidence – his square shoulders, his steady gaze, the surety of his step. Hashirama was _not_ breathless.

Tobirama was not behind him.

“Hello,” Hashirama said. He waved. Madara did not wave back, but his eyes visibly dropped to scan Hashirama’s outfit. Something like pain briefly flashed in his face. Hashirama had no idea why. He was just wearing a colorful shirt.

“So Izuna said you can do magic,” Madara said, brusquely. He walked over to 145-B’s lit case. “Like, actual, literal plant magic. Right?”

“Well,” said Hashirama. “Yeah? I guess?”

Madara turned to stare at him. “You guess.”

“It’s not really impressive,” Hashirama said. “Like, I can’t make a forest appear out of thin air or anything like that. Sometimes plants just grow better around me.”

“Uh huh. I wonder if I should be offended you told Izuna before me?” Madara bent down to peer at the terracotta pot. “So… this is from that night?”

– _branches broke in through the window as vines snaked through the air vents, burst open the ceiling light, twisted into the crevices in the baseboards. Hashirama wanted to move – he **had to move –**_

“Yes,” said Hashirama. “It’s what I need to talk to you about.”

Tobirama was coming down the stairs, holding an additional mug. He passed it to Madara wordlessly, and went to go lean against one of the counters behind them.

“I… our father, Butsuma…” Hashirama didn’t miss how Madara narrowed his eyes at the name. “There’s this project he’s been working on.”

“You’ve mentioned that before. It involves this plant, then?”

“Yes.” Hashirama took another sip of the not-coffee and walked up to the case, standing side-by-side with Madara. “He thinks… ah. There’s no good way to say this.”

“He wants to research any potentially psychoactive substances generated by this plant and find a way to weaponize and commodify them,” Tobirama said. “Essentially, he wants to find out how to mass manufacture the gas and establish a contract with the government – or anyone else who’ll pay money for a previously undiscovered mind-altering chemical.” 

Hashirama grimaced. “See?”

Madara sucked in a long breath and exhaled it slowly. “Man,” he said. “It’s so nice having my hatred vindicated like this. Your dad’s evil, Hashirama. Go figure.”

“He’s not _evil_ ,” Hashirama protested weakly. Tobirama rolled his eyes.

“He actually is,” Madara said. “That’s also what I wanted to talk to you about.” His eyes slid over to Tobirama.

Tobirama stared back, then looked at Hashirama.

Hashirama said nothing.

“Are you serious?” Tobirama said. “I’m being kicked out of my _own basement_?”

“We’re not kicking you out – ” Hashirama began.

“Yes, we are. Fuck off, brat, I need to talk to Hashirama.”

“You are literally only two years older than I am,” Tobirama snarled, but he stomped towards the stairs all the same. Hashirama heard a phone ring briefly, then Tobirama said, “Izuna, hey – ” as he shut the door.

“Thank god,” Madara said. He finally turned to face Hashirama fully. He licked his lips and Hashirama immediately took a deep drink out of his mug, just to give his hands something to do.

“So, my clan’s destitute,” Madara said.

Oh. _Oh_. Hashirama lowered the mug and gazed at Madara with wide eyes. Destitution meant selling clan property. It meant expensive legal fees and protracted court battles over membership and inheritance rights. It meant bad schools and bad job prospects. A clan without money inevitably stopped being a clan in the next generation or so, simply because the costs to maintain it became too large.

“Madara… I’m so sorry,” Hashirama said. “Is there anything I can do?”

Madara opened his mouth, then closed it. He covered his eyes and let out a short chuckle. “I don’t know, Hashirama. Is there? I mean, it’s completely due to the actions of Senju Butsuma. You think you can convince him to give us back our industries?”

“Probably not.” Hashirama set his mug down and put his hand on Madara’s shoulder. “I wish…”

“I mean, unless we kill Butsuma in his sleep and somehow transfer control of his assets over to you,” Madara said. “But something tells me you’d be against that plan.” Did he just take a step closer?

Hashirama hesitated. He swallowed.

“Maybe not that against it,” he said.

Madara cocked his head and surveyed Hashirama’s face, visibly amused. “Don’t act all cool on my behalf, Hashirama.”

“I’m always cool!” Hashirama immediately protested.

“You’re wearing a shirt from a 90’s fever dream. You’re so far from cool, you’ve reached desert.”

“You’re _mean_ , Madara.” Why was he just now realizing Madara had eyelashes? Of course, he always _knew_ Madara had eyelashes – he had to, everyone did – but he’d just never thought to pay attention to them before –

“Whatever you’re doing, _keep doing it!”_ came Tobirama’s muffled voice from upstairs.

Madara jumped back like he’d been scalded – and _wow_ , they’d been standing close together. When did that happen? Hashirama coughed awkwardly into his fist, and as he did so his eyes fell on the flower in the case.

The flower bud had begun to twist open. But as they stared at it, the bud scale shifted back into place and the burgeoning red petals retracted, leaving them in the exact same position as before. They heard Tobirama cursing from upstairs.

“Well, _fuck_ ,” Hashirama said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the term "dick plant" might have been more accurate than anyone expected.
> 
> this chapter is brought to u by THIS shirt: https://ancharan.tumblr.com/post/617599910200721408/tonights-chapter-will-be-brought-to-you-by-this


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter has some disturbing imagery. Be ready. This is also the final chapter.

“You know,” Hashirama said, staring at the case. “We could just try having you… hold it.”

“Hold it?” Madara asked. “You think that’ll work?”

“It might,” Hashirama said. “Tobirama! Come unlock this case!”

The younger Senju thundered back down the stairs. “Are you sure, Hashirama?” he said, as he passed by them.

“What harm could it do?” Hashirama said.

Madara had a deep feeling of foreboding, but it melted away as Tobirama punched in a code and slid the glass door aside. He suddenly felt fine. In fact, he felt _more_ than fine.

“Let’s do it,” he said, holding out his hand for the flower pot. Tobirama passed it to him gingerly.

At first, there was silence. Then, with a sound like tearing paper, the flower began to bloom.

“It’s working!” Hashirama said. “I have no idea why, but it’s – ”

The flower was open.

_The flower was open._

**_The flower was open._ **

**_And the world_ **

**_went_ **

**_black._ **

* * *

Madara was lying face down in the mud. One eye tracked his blood as it lazily mixed with the river water, the pounding rain sending flecks splattering against his face.

Madara was standing on a cliff overlooking a verdant forest.

Madara was screaming his throat raw as a thousand knives rent his skin – flaying flesh from bone, his sinews and tendons snapping under the hard steel.

Madara was burning alive. His hands were bound – he had no hands – he was choking on his own blood as his head was forced under the water.

His eye sockets were empty and his face was sticky with blood. Someone was screaming.

He was watching a wooden clone shatter in a hail of splinters when Hashirama forced a sword through his heart.

 _Hashirama_. It was like a dam opening.

Madara’s bones were snapping and forcing their way through his skin. His teeth were sharp points cutting through his tongue. His teeth were falling out of his head. The stumps of his fingers were raw and bleeding as he scrabbled them against rough stone.

Hashirama laughing as he skipped rocks across the river. Hashirama standing on a twisting tree trunk as the ground erupted under them. Hashirama, sage marks burned in his skin like a tattoo, hands forming angry seals and mouth a harsh line as he clashed with his clan.

Who was he? Who was his clan? Was there ever a city?

Madara saw black hair, black eyes, skin like pale ashes and a red and white fan – he saw fire, red eyes, spinning tomoe – an ocean of blood deep enough to drown them all –

He was running through the forest with his brothers. Izuna? Yes, but others too – brothers whose names Madara had scarcely remembered before – _but he had no other brothers, it had always been him and Izuna –_

\- Izuna, fragile little Izuna, hands raw as they held the kunai, his determination to support his family unfailing as he forced himself through kata after kata, even as Tajima shook his head in disappointment and crossed his arms.

Tajima. His father was a footnote in history – he **slammed his head into the floor again and again and again** – his fingers were slick around the tanto as he pulled it from his father’s throat – if he raised his hand to Izuna one more time Madara would make him _b l e e d_ –

Hashirama kneeling over his body, face picturesque and calm as the knife plunged towards his belly –

\- only to be stopped by Madara’s hand –

\- Hashirama gutted himself happily and there was still war, and war, forever –

\- Tobirama’s pale red eyes cold and merciless as Izuna was cut through –

\- Madara’s hand slick again with blood as he clawed through his throat –

Madara’s mind was ripping apart at the seams. Was there ever a city?

 _Konoha,_ his soul screams. _Our dream, our dream, our dream._

He remembered growing up with Izuna, going to high school in the Uchiha district, seeing a falcon take off for the first time –

\- but the Uchiha clan was always so, so hungry, and skirmishes with the Senju always cost them more than they gained –

Madara had the vague sense that he was lying down, somewhere, somehow, but he was more preoccupied with the chain wrapped around his throat.

Madara might’ve seen a panicked Hashirama furiously dialing 911 into an iPhone.

He might’ve also seen Hashirama, face lined with cracks and crumbling, watching him mournfully with pitch black eyes.

He might’ve also seen Hashirama turn away from the riverbed, abandoning his body and his sword as the rain came down and down.

Madara was beating Tajima’s face with closed fists.

Madara was signing a peace accord with the Senju.

Madara was coming home from his first day at the Conservatory, a rare smile on his face as he told Izuna about _falconry._

Madara choked on his own blood. Was there an IV in his arm? What was an IV?

The moon loomed overhead, but that made no sense because it was almost noon – it was 4pm – it was 0700 and Madara was late – it was dusk and he was missing his entire lower half –

Spinning tomoe filled his vision.

Was he lying in a hospital bed?

Madara drowned as a baby. Madara grew to an old age. Madara was killed in combat at age 14.

Where was Hashirama?

Hashirama was curled with him under on a futon, laughing at a joke he’d made. Hashirama was pressing a kunai to his throat. Hashirama was surfacing in the river with him, shaking water-drenched hair out of his eyes, the stupid bowl-cut retaining its shape even when wet. Hashirama was looking at Mito with light in his eyes and something in Madara crumbled to ash and he screamed _I want, I want, I want._

“Can you hear me?”

Madara could see the moon.

“Hello?”

Madara could see the moon.

“He’s unresponsive – ”

Madara could see the moon and he could see the blood red tomoe spinning and spinning.

“Heart rate’s skyrocketing, we need to – ”

Madara couldn’t breathe.

He felt like he was floating in an ocean – floating was the wrong word – he was fighting against the inertia of the water, like there were weights tied to his ankles and he could just barely stay abreast of the waves.

Where was he? _When_ was he?

The Uchiha clan stood proudly under the banner of the Hidden Leaf –

\- the Uchiha clan stood proudly outside the gates of Konoha University –

\- the Uchiha clan was destitute, the Uchiha clan was desecrated, the Uchiha clan was decimated and defiled. The Uchiha clan bled out on their own floorboards and their blood consecrated a new beginning.

Madara struggled to keep his head above the water.

_“Madara? Madara, can you hear me?”_

Susano’o was an impenetrable barrier but Hashirama broke through nonetheless, _mokuton_ slamming through his defenses with the fury of a god.

Tomoe whirled in the sky.

Madara was beginning to differentiate the two – at least, two out of the multitudes. He had lifetimes of trying to stay abreast over the waves.

In the sky above the moon shone blood-red. Madara could see knives and blood. He saw Izuna, and the rest of the clan, warm campfires in the lull between fighting. Hashirama, resplendent, matching him blow-for-blow, hand stretching out for his for eternity.

Below him was the steady _beep_ – _beep – beep_ of a heart monitor. There was an empty apartment and a dying clan and an old conservatory where the roots of his soul had wings. There was Hashirama, cradling his head on the floor, pleading with him to hold on until the paramedics got there.

Who was Senju Butsuma? An insignificant leader, or a multimillionaire? Just one more casualty in an endless war, or the architect of all of Madara’s woes?

Never the architect of his woes. Madara was beginning to realize that the root cause of all of his problems was always, forever and always, himself.

The tomoe spun overhead.

And Madara _dived_.


	10. Epilogue

“Are you sure?” Hashirama said. “I think it’ll be easier, but I don’t want to rush – ”

“Selling the compound’s going to sting, but they wanted me to be clan head. They just have to deal with it.” Madara poised the scissors at the base of a small branch. “Here?”

“Go ahead,” Hashirama said. He chewed on his lip. “Once Butsuma gives me control of – ”

“We’ve discussed it,” Madara interrupted. He snipped the branch and surveyed the small tree closely. “I have faith you’ll follow through, Hashirama.”

Hashirama snorted. “Why _thank you_ , oh great and powerful Madara. Your faith is a blessing to me.”

“It should be.” Madara sent him a small smile, and Hashirama couldn’t help but lean over and press a kiss to the side of his mouth.

“You scared me, you know,” Hashirama murmured. “We weren’t sure you were going to wake up.”

“Are you sure I’m awake?” Madara said. “Are you sure _any_ of us are awake?”

“Hm. Maybe not! But if it means I can do _this ­_ – ” Another quick kiss. “ – then I’m fine with it.”

“I have to agree.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! 
> 
> Hahaha, well, here we are. I'm sure this probably didn't turn out how you were expecting. I hope it was a good surprise? 
> 
> Is it clear what happened, more or less? This was my first ACTUAL fanfic ever, so I'm really just kind of hoping it was coherent at all, hahaha. That Mangekyou Tsukyomi's a bitch and a half, ain't it?
> 
> Let me know what you liked! Let me know what you hated! And thank you from the bottom of my heart for being here with me for this story! I never would've gotten this far without your kind words and encouragement. Thank you, thank you, and thank you again!


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